


A Fine Summer's Day

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Casefile-ish, Gen, Strong PG13?, unity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here though, in the brightness of a warm summer day, here everything was perfect.</p><p>Apart from the murder, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Summer's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lewis Summer Challenge 2014!

Stands of soft yellow foxglove stood facing him from the inside of the wooden fence like sentries at the gate. Delphiniums with pure white flowers towered over them and Robbie too, marching off to either side to where the forest encroached. Beyond the flowers, where the barely-there path led through the gate, was a field of short green grass. The sky beyond was blue and cloudless and held the promise of summer neverending. He made sure the gate was closed behind himself and followed the path, which was more of a trampling upon the grass than anything else.

Woodsmoke spiced the soft air, and someone was cooking a roast. On cue, his stomach rumbled, and he had to laugh at himself, because he was getting ridiculous in his old age. Still, he hoped there was a chance he could get a look in; he was tired of salt fish and cold pease porridge. And a bed, he would be really happy if there was a good bed to be had with fresh straw, or better yet, wool batting or feathers. He shook his head at his own ridiculousness. He'd gotten soft in his dotage. Time was he'd have been happy to lay out all night under the swirl of stars, especially if Val was by his side. He'd even grown to love the ache in his back from the uneven ground he lay upon when she decided to ride him. Wonderful days.

Just over the rise the field sloped down. Now Robbie could see how long it was from top to bottom. The village folk would be able to see him coming quite easily. Good for defense, or at least forewarning if they had a lookout. Which he very highly doubted. The trees were well grown, spaced widely enough spaced for four men to ride abreast between them. There was the church, a solid Norman structure touched up in the current fashion with new white paint on the window sills. The graveyard next to it had been recently mown, perhaps even that morning by the smell of freshly cut grass. There was also a sprinkling of small stone cottages surrounding the green, which was liberally salted with sheep. It was perfect, if one judged by the old biscuit tins Mistress Hobson had in her workshop.

Robbie continued down the hill, both happy to be traveling, and footsore from the journey. He was pleased to be out of Casteledge. There was nothing wrong with it, it was a fine town, with all of a fine town's problems. He was tired of drunken louts and harried wives, filthy, screaming children, stinking air and the ripeness of the sewers when they flooded during winter. Here though, in the brightness of a warm summer day, here everything was perfect.

Apart from the murder, of course. 

Aye, the place looked to be in good order. The path joined a rutted wagon track and he continued his steady pace.

A girl-child appeared from around the corner of the golden-stoned house to his left, saw him and, her eyes widening comically, fled in the opposite direction. Well, that was him noticed, then. He kept his steady pace on the path, now skirting the far edge of the green. Aye, the sheep were lovely specimens, recently shorn, free of maggots and hoof rot. Robbie was impressed, it took skill and care in these days to keep a sheep healthy. Turning back, he saw several men gathering where the track forked. Right.

"Afternoon," he called, noting the looks of wary welcome he was given. Nobody looked suspicious, though he marked the tall blond fellow standing a little apart from the crowd as someone to speak to privately. The outcasts always knew the gossip, he didn't know why. "My name's Robbie Lewis, I'm here to speak to your Ombudsman, Jack Friedman."

One of the men, he wore a straw hat with a diamond pattern woven into the band, folded his arms and shook his head. "Died last week. Named Goody Innocent his replacement," he gestured towards Robbie's left. "Third house down."

"Ta very much," said Robbie. He passed his walking stick from one hand to the other, scratched under the strap of the bag he wore crosswise against his body. See, all normal. Nothing to fear from him, nothing at all. No need to worry overmuch about his presence. 

The third house down was a grand affair in red brick, trimmed in yellow sandstone. The glass windows were long and wide and Robbie wondered how much wood it took to heat the place in winter. Granted, winters here were milder than in the North, but still. The front garden was laid to lawn, with a white peastone walk from the path to the front door, where he knocked. Peastone, hmm. Someone wanted to show off. Given how loud the stone was against his boots, he wasn't in the least surprised to find the door opening before he'd even lowered his arm.

"Oh!" The young woman's hand flew to her mouth as she stepped back from the door. 

Robbie doffed his leather hat. "Miss, I'm here to see the Ombudsman."

"Oh, wait here," she said, closing the door in his face.

He reined back his annoyance, this was only to be expected, he was a stranger here. Village like this one, with its painted sills and nice sheep, with its gate on the hill, strangers didn't come here often, he'd wager. Easy to miss the cut entirely if you weren't paying attention to where you were on the main road. No doubt that was the point. He rocked from one foot to the other, looked over his shoulder to see who, if anyone, was watching on the path behind and oh yes, there was the tall blond. He nodded an acknowledgment, didn't get one in return but that was alright.

The door opened again and this time a handsome older woman in an indigo dress and cream apron stained with olive green and rose madder stood in front of him. She said, "I'm Goody Innocent."

Robbie bowed slightly, a little surprised to see a woman in charge. Times were indeed changing. "Inspector Robbie Lewis, ma'am. Sent from Casteledge on account of the murder you've had here."

"Ah," she said, drying her hands on her apron. "I wasn't sure if Jack had sent the letter. He went to Dun Tew to mail it, and Charlie Tinker found him halfway down the hill the next day. Blood was coming from his ears, but I couldn't find any evidence of wounds on his skull. Oh, let's not talk about this where anyone can hear," she said, drawing back from the door.

"We've had a bit of trouble with a few of the crews coming in from the war, mayhap he met up with some of them" he said, following her inside. Glancing around, he was impressed with the simple clean lines of the house. A good solid wooden staircase in front, a hallway receding into shadow next to it, cream walls upon which hung several small mirrors and a framed charcoal drawing of flowers in a vase. To the right was a closed door, and to the left, where she led him, a cozy, whitewashed parlour with two upholstered chairs and a small sofa, all in a brown and cream cabbage rose print. A tiny, unlit hearth against the far wall, a shelf of cloth-bound books, a table suitable for a tea tray and a bowl of unshelled walnuts and almonds made up the rest of the room.

"Possibly," Goody Innocent took the chair next to the window, forcing Robbie to sit with the light highlighting his face. Oh, well done. His estimation of her abilities went up from nil to curious. Now the question was how much skill did she really have.

Clasping her hands together in her lap, she said, "Tell me, Inspector, what you know."

"A farmer, one Colin Dalton, came across the body of Dean Underhill in the hedge known as Potter's Ditch," recited Robbie, having memorized the letter and its accompanying, crudely drawn map before leaving the barracks at Casteledge. "Underhill's skull was cloven in half, with several stab wounds to his torso and hands. Dalton's not under consideration because he had no blood on his clothing, and his wife stated they were the same clothes he was wearing when he had left the family home before breakfast."

Innocent nodded. "Yes, Colin's still shaken up by the whole experience. Underhill was not the most popular of men here in Oakwell. Too many people have seen the state of his children, never mind his wife also being his sister."

Robbie grimaced. Wasn't the first time he had run across such a thing. Still, it was unpleasant to hear. 

"Plainly put, we don't have any leads."

"The truth always outs to an outsider," said Robbie, repeating the slogan of Casteledge's Rural Service.

"Yes, I think it will," answered Innocent, rising to her feet. "You come highly recommended. Our current Bard has already sung the tale of Minnie Watt."

 _God_. "Ah, yes. Minnie was certainly a character."

Innocent led him back outside, turning left once off the peastone path. "I've taken the liberty of housing you with him. I'm afraid he's got the only free room in the village."

As long as she didn't expect the two of them to get along for long, that was fine with Robbie. He'd met other so-called Bards and had not been impressed. They tended to be full of hyperbole, their stories expanded and inflated until they were but a facsimile of the original tale. He said nothing of this, however, content to walk besides Innocent (she had a good, no-nonsense stride) until they reached the last house on the lane. 

The one storey cottage was tiny, really nothing more than a bothy with a chimney at either end. Oddly, it had been recently whitewashed, making it stand out amidst the other buildings of warm gold stone. There were flowers in the yard, pink Ranunculus bordering tall spikes of fuzzy purple Liatris. Dusky, twilight-colored Lavender edged the waterline of the roof - Robbie would give his eye teeth to learn the trick of that - and in the center of the yard, encircling an old tree stump, a thick stand of Crocosmia ready to bloom. Next to the cottage was an old and tall hedge easily twice his height. It was massive, he didn't think he'd ever seen one so high. The track continued beyond the gate set in the hedge, giving Robbie a brief glimpse of a yet another sloped field laid to wheat that waved gently in the warm breeze.

"Hathaway isn't your typical Bard," said Innocent in a low voice, tripping the latch on the gate leading to the house. "He has a lovely voice, and likes to sing rather depressing murder ballads over love songs. He's a bit dour, if I'm honest."

The door of the cottage opened before they were halfway to the door. Stepping out was the tall blond bloke. Of _course_ the Bard was the tall blond bloke. Lewis managed to paste a pleasant expression on his face even as he resolved not to let the man drive him up a wall with requests for adventurous tales.

Innocent half-turned towards Lewis. "James, this is Inspector Lewis. He'll be staying here with you until his investigation is complete."

"Bard," said Robbie, offering his hand to shake. He was amused by Hathaway's slight bow during the handshake. A formal fellow, then. 

"I'll leave you to it," called Innocent, already heading back towards the track.

"Would you like some tea?" offered Hathaway, hunching over in the way of most over-tall men.

"Tea would be lovely," answered Robbie. "All this walking puts a thirst on."

"You can leave the door open, I like the light," Hathaway led the way into the dimness of the cottage. "I have beer if you prefer. My own special brew, thought it's a bit weak at the moment."

"Ta, tea will do," Robbie quickly looked around the interior. About what he had expected. A cooking fireplace on the left with two chairs and a narrow table between them, a wide bed on the far wall underneath a glassed in window - they must have had someone local to make and fit it - a round table immediately to the right, underneath the other window, and a collection of chairs near the other fireplace. He followed Hathaway into the kitchen, swung his travel back on the ground, leaned his walking stick on the wall. After a few seconds he removed his jacket, because the heat coming from the fireplace was fierce. A wealthy village, then, to be able to afford coal. He watched Hathaway pour tea from the iron kettle into two mugs, accepted his gratefully. Yes, fine black tea with a strong hint of herbal sweetness. Too hot to drink, in fact too hot to hold. He set his cup on the table, waved his hand in the air with a mild curse.

Hathaway didn't quite smirk as he turned, bringing a glass jar of red honey and a plate of white butter over to the table from the standing cupboard. He uncovered a loaf of brown bread studded with sunflower seeds, carved a thick slice. "Please, help yourself."

Robbie happily sat down and spread the butter on thick and the honey thin. After chewing through his initial bite, he said, "This is absolutely delicious."

"Thanks," said Hathaway, a look of shy pleasure stealing over his face. He sat in the other chair crossing his legs in what Robbie thought was a terrible attempt at looking comfortable. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Mm," Robbie blew on the tea, risked a sip. He cleared his throat. Next time he wouldn't take quite such a big bite of bread. "Innocent told me you'd sung about Minnie Watt."

"Yes, she was interesting. Do you have any ideas about Dalton? Can I follow you to see how it's done? Are you going straight back to Casteledge or solving another murder somewhere else?"

Robbie blinked. Not…quite what he had been expecting of this Bard. They weren't normally so forthright about what they wanted, and when, and from whom. In his experience most of them got by on hearsay and outright lies. "I already know who the murderer is."

Wide-eyed, Hathaway sat back in his chair. "You're joking!"

"Policemen never joke, son."

"Oh, now you _are_ joking.

Robbie grinned. "Aye."

"So when are you going to tell Innocent? How do you know? Can you tell me who it is?"

"Details come after lunch. That was a good song about Minnie. You write it yourself?"

Hathaway shrugged. "Wasn't difficult. Easy enough to include the news when roaming the countryside."

"You can write? And do maths?"

"I was sent to St. Bartholemew's as a boy," said Hathaway, glancing out the window.

Robbie nodded and popped the last bite of bread into his mouth. Illegitimate, then. Plenty of folk were, there was no shame in it in his opinion. He made a fast decision, decided not to worry overmuch about it. "You can help me."

"I can?"

"Aye. It's easier when there's someone to take notes. Besides, the Chief'll be glad not to read my chicken scrawl this time around. Let me just finish my tea - alright. I want you to round all the adults up, have them bring their heavy blades and their scythes, small and large, meet me at Potter's Ditch. Bring paper and pencil, oh, and make sure they call cover their blades with clean cloth, no rug scraps."

Hathaway jumped to his feet, sending his chair screeching across the flagstone. "You want the children, too?"

"No, but the women should come," Robbie stood as well, collecting his walking stick. He found he needed it more often than not outside of Casteledge. 

While Hathaway went to do Robbie's bidding, Robbie himself stepped out of the cottage and headed towards the field beyond the hedge. He opened the gate, mindful of how little pressure it took to open the latch, wondered how often the cows got out in winter. Maybe they used another field entirely. Would be a waste of good compost if they did. Now, according to the map he had been sent, Potter's Ditch was at the very top of the field, bordering a stream that led to a pond. He took his time walking up the slope, listening to the birds rustle in the hedge. God, how he had loved laying the hedge when he was a boy. Hard work. The kind of work that kept him and his Uncle Sandy away from one another, and that was all to the good.

At the top of the field was a track, and by the ruts, well used. The stream was indeed a stream, shallow yet about the same width as the track. He followed it until it drained into a goodly sized pond. A little beyond the pond was a brick beehive about his height, a stack of wood and twigs, dried cow pats, and sheep dung beside it, along with a small pile of broken pottery. 

He investigated the area while he waited for the villagers. There was a forest running next to the track on one side, the hedge continuing out of sight on the other. Besides a few bushes and rushes on the edge of the pond, there was nowhere for anyone to hide and ambush a person. Even the forest was well maintained, with old trees and little underbrush. To the right, beyond the beehive kiln, the track went on into into the next field, passing through a young hedge less than a meter high. Again, the area was open and the trees narrow, anyone would have a clear view of what was going on. Whoever had murdered Dean Underhill had known who he was and what he was capable of doing. Which most likely meant they had come here with the intention of killing the man.

It took less time than Robbie thought, to gather the villagers together. There were one or two outliers, a drover and a goosegirl who had left for St. Mary's the previous day. He wasn't concerned, though. The murderer was still in the village, hiding in plain sight, whoever they were. 

Robbie stood on the corner of an old stone feed trough, mindful not to step back by mistake and get himself a dunking. In front of him stood a pretty homogeneous group of standard Anglo-Saxon stock. Living in Casteledge it was easy to forget the country was just not as diverse when it came to the population. Most were dressed in stout wool and plain linen, leather boots where they weren't bare foot. A few babies were in attendance, but that was alright, they were too young to understand anything. Hathaway and Innocent huddled together at the back of the crowd, eyeing everyone. Robbie rested his hands on the very top of his stick, prepared to move if someone should make a run for it.

"Come on, then! Who's the murderer?" called one chap. He shook his scythe, made what Robbie could consider a rude gesture towards either it or him. "Got work to do!"

Interesting. Robbie saw lots of heads nodding in agreement, arms folded, men and women staring up at him not in distrust so much as disinterest. Plainly The law was the law, though. He had been asked to investigate and here he was, even if Goody Innocent didn't care for the man herself. "Those of you with scythes and long knives, bring them over here," he said, pointing towards his feet. "Don't take the wraps off until you're about to lay your blades down."

He watched them do as requested with ill grace, shooting him dirty looks all the while. When they were done, he made a shooing motion. "Alright. Now there are two ways we can go about this. We can leave these here and come back in the morning," at the outcry he held up both hands. "In the morning! I'm sure you all have things you can do that don't require blades. And if any of them go missing, we'll know who to serve justice to, won't we?"

There was a shocked silence, then a woman said, "Nah, we ain't leaving."

Robbie nodded. "Fine. Then we stay here and we wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?" said the man in the diamond banded hat. He jerked his chin at Robbie. "Wait for you coming here all high and mighty, pick out one of us country folk to send to your filthy city to hang?"

"Whoever did this is not innocent," answered Robbie. He let himself lean forward on his stick a little. "Even if you didn't care about Dean Underhill, even if you hated him, his life was not yours to take."

Oh, who was he fooling? He knew very well that rough justice was handed out in villages and towns all over the land, even in London. And…he couldn't deny that in some cases that justice was very well deserved.

"That's _enough!"_ shouted Goody Innocent over the increasingly loud murmur. The villagers half-turned towards her. "I've only been here for the summer, but I know you are good and moral people. My cousin Jack would never have sent for the Rural Service if he had thought for one moment Dean's death was an accident. Now kindly either shut up or return to the village."

Before Robbie could do more than send an admiring glance her way, a fly landed on his nose. He scarcely dared breathe, much less move a muscle. 

"Inspector, do you have anything to add?" called Innocent, her voice brisk. When he didn't answer, she repeated her question sharply.

"Look!" said Hathaway, pointing towards the ground at Robbie's feet. He slowly took a few steps forward, peering down. _"Look!"_ he said again.

Robbie brushed the fly away with one hand. Using his stick for balance, he sank down onto his hunkers and felt a great deal of satisfaction at what he saw. He looked up at the villagers, who had curled around Hathaway in a quarter-moon. He pointed to a sickle, one that was pitted and stained green along its edge, just like all the others. "Right, whose blade is that?"

Heads turned once more as the villagers sought one of their own. There was an outcry from center and then a very young, very tall boy was bodily being pushed forward. He was terrified, surging one way and the other against the hands that held him firmly in place.

The woman who had spoken earlier looked at Robbie and said, "It's Simon's blade!"

He sighed heavily. "Is it true, son?"

"It's his," said Diamond Hatband somberly, his face heavy with disappointment. "He's been seeing Dean's oldest, Ellie, even though I kept telling him to keep away from that family."

"We were going to run away!" cried the boy. "Dad, we were going to run away and he found us! He threw Ellie to the ground, started kicking her! I had to protect her and the baby!"

The crowd rippled at this news, and Robbie knew he had only the one chance to turn things to his favor before they either spirited the boy away or stoned him to death. "Whose baby?"

Simon stopped struggling all at once, sagging into the crowd's embrace. Mouth pinched, he sullenly muttered, "Her dad's."

 _Ah._ Robbie could see it clear as day. The lovers meeting by the beehive, planning their escape. The father following his daughter, intent on surprising her and scaring off her beau. Because in these isolated villages, children were often property until they married, and getting permission to marry could sometimes be difficult, if nigh on impossible. Robbie had seen things…ugly things. He straightened up, shifted from foot to foot to ease the ache in his knees. "Someone run to Ellie's and collect all the knives. Hathaway, wrap that up that sickle. Someone bring Simon to Goody Innocent's. The rest of you, collect your blades and go on about your day."

Of course, no one left. The villagers of Oakwell surrounded Robbie and Simon and Hathaway. Though they carried their sharp implements with them, Robbie didn't sense a threat either to himself nor to Simon. If anything, sympathy had swung Simon's way even more and, snatching bits and pieces of commentary from the hubbub, Robbie was sure he was going to leave Oakwell under Innocent's good care.

Hathaway sidled up to Robbie, leaned in close to ask, "How did you know?"

"About Simon?" Robbie let his lips curl up a bit. "The flies. They always appear within a day where even the slightest trace of blood can be found."

He basked in Hathaway's admiring glance as they went through the gate again. Walking past the cottage, he said, "Is there any chance of a supper tonight?"

"I can roast potatoes, and I already have an egg pie ready," said Hathaway earnestly. "I don' know how hot it will be, though."

"Tell you what. You pop in and get those potatoes on, then come with pencil and paper to Innocent's. I want you to take the notes with me."

"Inspector!" The young girl who had initially seen him in what seemed like days earlier, but in reality had only been a couple of hours, ran up to him, holding a cloth wrapped bundle in her arms. "These are all the knives from our Ellie!"

"Thank you," he said. "Take them into the Ombudsman's house, I'll join you shortly."

"Yes, sir!" she answered breathlessly, turning and racing up the peastone.

Robbie shook his head, mildly amused. This would be a story for her grandchildren some day. "I'll tell you what, Hathaway. You tell this story clean and I'll recommend you the Rural Service."

Hathaway was obviously taken aback by the offer. He stammered, "Thank you, I think?"

"Come on, man, you don't want to be a Bard forever, wandering hill and dale until you die or drink yourself to death, do you? The Service pays a living wage, and if that's not enough to convince you, just think of how many songs you'll be able to compose! You'll never run out of material."

Hathaway considered for a long moment, staring at Robbie with an intent, nearly blank expression on his face. "Would I work with you?"

Robbie stared back at him, aware of lingerers as the last few people drifted back into the village. It would be nice to have a companion on the road, even a Bard. In fact, it might be downright advantageous, because who wasn't happy (besides himself) to tell a Bard all sorts of things? Who else could eavesdrop with nobody noticing? Who else would be willing to write the bloody damned reports after a case? He pondered for a moment longer, then turned and headed into Innocent's house. Halfway there he shoved one hand into his pocket, spun around and said, "Only if you're buying in the pints!"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty tired and am sure I've missed typos and such. 
> 
> The ending isn't what I had originally invisioned, but because of unexpected things, the time got away from me.
> 
> From what I recall, the first recorded solving of a murder case using forensic methods occurred in China a few hundred years ago (could be longer). A farmer was murdered, and the district policeman went to investigate. He had all the farmers stand in a row before him with their scythes, one of which became coated in flies as they stood there. The owner of the scythe then confessed to killing the farmer. I'd cite it if I could, but I don't recall from which of my texts I remember this bit o' info.


End file.
